


Interlude

by Soujin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunken Confessions, M/M, drunk makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soujin/pseuds/Soujin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief assignation in a car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

“Anthea.”

“Yes, sir.” Her elegant pencilled eyebrows lift ever so slightly, as they always do.

“The car, please.”

“Yes, sir.” She nods smartly, her nails clicking on the keypad of her BlackBerry (she always has the latest model of everything technological, a fact that Mycroft can hardly fail to appreciate). After seven years of service, during which time he has found absolutely nothing whatsoever to complain of--and he’s looked, waiting for her to reveal her flaws as have all the assistants before her--Mycroft has come to view her with the same pleasure a collector might feel for a particularly masterful piece of artwork. Anthea is everything he requires in a personal assistant. “Shall I have Simon put a pot of coffee on?”

“Yes, I think you had better.”

More clicking. Mycroft pulls on his suit jacket, straightening the cuffs, and reaches for his umbrella.

“Oh, are you going, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Gloves.” She hands them to him, and he tugs them on. Anthea is aware of his distaste of touching things with his bare hands, particularly unclean things, and she’s come to anticipate what he’ll require for a given outing. “Robert’s out front. Shall I come with you?”

“No, thank you.” Mycroft looks at her consideringly and then says, “Take an afternoon.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He knows she won’t; Anthea is as devoted to the office as he is, and he expects that he’ll find her reviewing the new post-Mubarak liaisons in Egypt when he returns. She doesn’t trust the new man any more than he does, and he suspects--no, he knows--that she’s been going over his records on her own time. But that’s only another reason Mycroft appreciates her as much as he does.

The car is waiting for him.

\---

“Detective Inspector.”

Greg looks up, trying not to squint. The pub’s dim and smoky, and he’s trying to keep his dignity and his wits about him but he’s not quite sure who he’s looking at without working his eyes up a bit. “Hello.” It’s starting to occur to him that he might’ve drunk more than he meant to, especially considering he should be keeping his head on straight, but he always has a few--or a few more than a few--pints on his and Annie’s anniversary. It’s just bad luck that he’s got a bad case going on now too.

The man is still standing there watching him, and Greg half lifts himself out of the booth to wave the man into a seat, when he suddenly places that voice and that tie and that fancy black umbrella--oh, fuck him.

He clears his throat. “Holmes,” wondering how obvious it is that he’s hanging on to the back of the seat to keep himself steady. Probably obvious. It’s a Holmes, after all.

“Good afternoon. The car is waiting outside.”

Mycroft puts a twenty-pound note on the table and turns away, and Greg lets out his breath finally, his shoulders falling a bit. He hasn’t decided yet whether this is going to turn into a lecture. The idea of Holmes giving anyone a lecture seems a bit weird. He probably has people to do that sort of thing for him. And in the meantime Greg just follows, unable to wrap his head around any sort of objection.

The car that’s waiting outside is the posh black one Holmes always goes around in, and Greg has a moment of dull, foggy surprise that the girl isn’t with him, what’s her name, Anthea? Something like that. Greg doesn’t know her well, even though she’s always with Holmes. Though he’s pretty sure he’s so bloody pissed it’s a wonder he can make observations.

Holmes holds open the door of the car from him and doesn’t get in until he’s made sure Greg is settled properly, leaving Greg feeling a bit like a kid being taken care of by a really austere nanny. He sits beside him, smoothing the knees of his pressed black suit, and Greg sighs again.

“I thought perhaps if you planned to continue drinking you might do it in a less objectionable setting,” Holmes says, after a few minutes of silence.

The tension goes out of Greg at that. It’s practically an I-love-you from someone as careful about what he says as Holmes is. The part of Greg that thinks everything is a good idea right now, the part of him that’s been watching Holmes for months any time he shows up at one of his brother’s crime scenes, and wondering what a man like that is like when he lets down his guard, cheerfully suggests that this is a fantastic sign. _Go ahead, make a move_. So he puts his hand on Holmes’s knee discreetly. At least he’s pretty sure it’s discreet.

“Thanks,” he says.

And then, before he knows what he’s doing--what the _hell_ is he doing? Shit, that’s too much of a move, what the hell--he’s pressing a fumbling kiss on Holmes, nothing big, nothing really involved, just a kiss and then his thumb stroking against the fabric on Holmes’s thigh gently, and Holmes isn’t getting upset about it. Holmes is sitting patiently as Greg notes, with a kind of mechanical horror, that he isn’t drawing back to his side of the car like he should, isn’t pulling his hands back to himself. Instead, he’s practically nuzzling against Holmes’s cheek as he murmurs,--

“You could have a drink with me.”

“Having you so close is nearly the same thing. Your scent is quite intoxicating on its own.”

It takes Greg a moment to realise that Holmes is making a very dry joke, but even that doesn’t deter him (another part of Greg, the part somewhere inside him that’s sober, is wondering why that isn’t enough of a cue to set him packing, and, even moreso, why Holmes’s just cracking jokes about the fact that he smells like a brewery instead of throwing him out of the car). His other hand is at Holmes’s waist--Holmes has a good, solid weight against him, and it encourages him to settle even closer, nearly spooning the poor man.

Luckily Greg’s far over his limit, and his brain decides to spare him further embarrassment by conking out about then, and leaving him blissfully ignorant of any further stupidity he decides to commit. _Luckily_ , that’s his last real thought.

\---

Mycroft puts his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder to steady him, as Lestrade buries his face in the crook of Mycroft’s neck, his breath warm against Mycroft’s stiff collar.

It isn’t that Mycroft has underestimated the quantity the detective has been drinking, but to be quite honest this reaction was quite what he was expecting. Lestrade is fairly transparent, true, but generally the emotions he displays are ones of weariness and dismay. Nothing Mycroft has seen--and he’s seen a great deal of Lestrade’s interactions, has been watching him for quite a few years now--has suggested that he would be so openly affectionate.

He lifts one eyebrow as Lestrade’s fingers brush through his hair, and smoothes it neatly back as soon as he’s distracted elsewhere. All the better Althea remained at the office. Mycroft of all men in the world understands the importance of privacy.

This time when Lestrade kisses him, he kisses back, mindful of Lestrade’s tenuous balance, and when they part he settles Lestrade firmly against his shoulder. There are a few moments of silence, then a barely-slurred,--

“Thanks.”

“Of course,” Mycroft says. It’s unlike that Lestrade will dare to remember anyway.


End file.
